Making Fun

Find Your g-Spout

2010-07-16T16:19:00.000-04:00

You know, your g-Spout. The kitchen utensil that helps you pour stuff, and is otherwise unrelated to any sort of sexual activity.

See that grease going into the can? That's called using the g-Spout and saving the earth. When you dump that same grease down the drain, it pollutes the water. It also ruins your pipes.

No one likes a clog. So find your g-Spout today, and get rid of buildup without making a mess.

The g-Spout promises to prevent drips, splattering, messes, and general unhappiness. Take this woman, for example. Now there's someone without a g-Spout.

But let's be honest, she's not the only one. We've all had burnt muffins before finding the g-Spout.

What most people don't know is that good baking starts with good pouring. Say you make enough batter to feed a small church congregation, and forget that it won't all fit into one little circle of the muffin tin.

Darn! You need a g-Spout.

Even those of us smart enough to use spoons aren't perfect.

And your oven knows when you fuck up, right?

Well so does your stove. And so do your kids. Aren't you supposed to be a good mother? Or at least a respectable human being? Then stop dumping chowder everywhere with one of those soup shovels.

What are you going to do next, lay that messy spoon on the counter like some sort of neanderthal? How about you join the rest of civilization and get a spoonrest? Luckily, the g-Spout has one built in. See?

Now you can stop being a slob and start being perfect.

The g-Spout even allows you to aim with precision, so you can pour batter into molds, and stop eating boring, roundish pancakes.

All for only $19.95. Now there's a lady who's found her g-Spout.

To order, go to http://www.g-spout.com/.

Special thanks to Terry at http://biloxxxi.com/biloxxxi/ for alerting me to yet another great invention.

Pro Con Pro

2010-07-15T22:50:00.000-04:00

Being part of a sorority means you get to openly judge which girls are good enough to be your friend. It's called rush. When we had a girl we weren't sure about, to be really nice, we said two good things about her and only one bad.

So if we were talking about Marcy, someone would say "She was really nice." Then someone would say "Her breath smelled like bacon, and she couldn't walk in her Manolo's." Then someone else would say "But that's because she's anorexic."

Good thing, bad thing, good thing. We called it Pro Con Pro. Since it's such a nice way of doing things, I figured I would break my day down in the same way. Here's today's Pro Con Pro.

Pro: I found $25 in my pocket.

Con: A bird took a giant dump on my sunroof. I chunked it off with the squeegee at the gas station, but it was so much that it ran down my windshield and one window. There's still a white streak that wiper fluid won't fix, and I was paranoid the whole time my sunroof was opened. What if that happened again, without the glass barrier?

Pro: LAST DAY OF SUMMER SCHOOL!!!! To make sure I didn't murder an eighth grader today, I made a general announcement that they would not be punished for missing the last day. To make sure certain students didn't come, I gave personal invitations to stay home. Examples:

I told Andrew to stay home and rest, since he had worn his winter hat both outside (where it's a hundred degrees) and inside (where I told him a hundred times he couldn't wear it). He clearly had a fever, and we could not allow him to risk his health or expose his illness to others.

I called a mom to tell her that her son pretending to masturbate in front of the class was far too convincing, and we could not allow him to be around other children another day.

After Brandon tried to argue with me over the color of turtles, my age when I got my ears pierced, and whether or not taco is a noun, I told him I was going to do him a favor. If he came to school today, I would let him stand in the hall and argue with his left shoulder all day so he could finally be right.

Success. I only had four kids in each class, but this day would have been a success even without the last pro. I would take bird poop for twenty-five bucks any day.

Highway User's Guide

2010-07-02T17:33:00.000-04:00

Directions: Complete guide incessantly while operating a motor vehicle on any state highway or interstate. Begin at one of the three boxes at the top, and follow arrows according to your answers. Repeat until exiting the highway.

Note: Number of questions increases as your vehicle moves left. If you are not able to answer these questions without swerving, slowing down, or otherwise endangering lives, please reserve left lanes for people who are.

Note: “But I’m going (insert speed here)” should never be considered in answers, even if you think you are going really fast. Any other arguing with this guide indicates you are a nuisance driver, and you should exit the highway immediately.

*Excludes laziness, having an expensive car, and "because I'm awesome".

The Almighty Torso

2010-06-24T08:56:00.005-04:00

For those of you never blessed with the opportunity to visit the largest known replica of Jesus in the United States, let me try to recreate the experience for you.

You are travelling north through Ohio on 75, and pass through Cincinnati and its suburbs. There is a giant flea-market on your right and a Hustler store on your left. You realize this is somewhere you could score fireworks and a cheap pistol, but you drive on.

Then, the billboards disappear. The unmowed fields turn to manicured lawn. Traffic slows as you reach the next city, and...

Jesus Christ!

That's right, there he is. Right in the middle of a pond, reaching up to Heaven.

You gasp in awe and wonder how much that thing cost, before quickly reminding yourself that no amount of money is too great for God.

People complained about the statue when it first went up. They said it was an eyesore, and was tacky. Others ranted about the sinful nature of worshipping false idols instead of God himself.

Others of us knew the truth though: this was God. Or at least his torso. So when people started using nicknames like Touchdown Jesus and Big Butter Jesus, we knew they were going to Hell for making fun of God's only son.

Or at least for stealing, because the name Touchdown Jesus was already taken. More appropriately located behind the stadium of Notre Dame, the original Touchdown Jesus features Christ as a teacher, in a mural made of granite.

Hmm, granite attached to a cement building. Interesting, if you're an engineer. But where's the fun in plain old stone? Where's the creativity? This was the job of an artist, and so the designers of the Ohio Touchdown Jesus would use a craftier combination: Styrofoam and fiberglass. Plastic fiberglass, wrapped around metal poles, to create an effect similar to that of paper mache.

Which is cool, if it's a fifth grader replicating James and the Giant Peach for a school project. But when the project grows to be a six-story bearded man, it gets creepy.

And dangerous. Styrofoam and plastic: flammable. Metal: conductor.

But obviously none of that matters, because this is a statue of Jesus. God will protect it. Which is why we were all shocked when Jesus was incinerated by a bolt of lightning last Monday.

How could God let this happen? Why would he burn his only son so publicly, all the way to the stake?

The pastor's wife says it was God sacrificing himself, pointing out that the shelter for at-risk women next door wasn't damaged.

Science says that the Hustler store wasn't damaged either, because it's not six stories tall and wrapped in foam.

While we may never understand the mysterious ways of God, we can look to the church for answers. And the church says Jesus shall return.

So, what will he be this time? Terminator Jesus, like the billboard suggests? Toothpick Jesus, covered in lights and doused in gasoline? PETA's idea is to have Jesus holding a lamb, with the inscription "Blessed are the merciful. Go vegan."

Church leaders haven't made a commitment yet, but they have made one promise: Jesus will return, and will be at least as big as before.

Put-In-Bay

2010-06-18T16:06:00.001-04:00

I didn't believe it at first. An island in Ohio? Impossible. But my friends stuck to their story, and so I played along.

When you reach Port Clinton in Northern Ohio, you are immediately blinded by the rank of dead fish.

That's right, blinded. You carry your luggage toward the water, hoping a dragon, or maybe a magic carpet, will carry you to this unknown land. Instead, with each crashing wave comes a fresh gust of death. You try to stop breathing completely, but when that fails, all you can do is scrunch your nose up to your eyes until your entire face is shut.

For that reason, I'm not sure how we reached this chunk of the universe. Either we passed out into the water, where friendly pirates seized us and drug us to shore, or we rode the ferry with everyone else.

Either way, our first sightings on this island version of Narnia proved that we were indeed within an unidentifiable realm of existence. The first thing we heard was screaming, which turned out to be a crowd of bikers huddled around a bar. Atop this bar was a rather large woman, displaying her ability to do center splits while wearing jean shorts.

Impressive.

Cut-offs of all kinds seemed to be accepted here, and were often paired with airbrushed, or other hand-decorated clothing items. People of all ages were intoxicated. A grandma stumbled by us with two men at her sides, carrying her because she was so hammered.

Where the hell were we?

We proceeded to The Edgewater hotel, where we were given keys to room number eight, and I used Abby's hair extensions to fashion myself a blonde beard before putting them to bed.

The next morning, we headed to the pool bar, where we agreed to help these guys meet their $500 cabana minimum.

You're welcome.

Around noon, we started to understand what happened to people upon spending time in this realm of bars and pools. Regardless of your age, or the time of year, you become convinced you are on Spring Break.

What else could explain the fist-pumping, or men peering over the pool from a balcony, or the barfing before dinner? What about the injuries during the waterfall photo shoot?

These usually go so well.

As we started to question our antics (Are we too old for this?) Captain Morgan showed up to wash away our fears. Yay, let's go meet him and take pictures!

Like any respectable Spring Breaker, I had already chosen my twenty-four hour boyfriend, so he and I frolicked toward the bar with dreams of red velvet hugs and free shots. When we got there though, The Captain ignored us when we asked for a picture, and he wouldn't even give us a T-shirt.

But I thought The Captain loved drunks. Where was the jolly pirate who inspired millions to hike a leg? Where was the barrel-chested hero who delivered happiness in a bottle?

This man was no Captain Morgan, and his ability to use weaponry as simple as a T-shirt gun proved it. That aim would embarrass any hunter of the open seas.

After a quick break to shower, we went to a bar called Roundhouse. Right below the Roundhouse sign is a neon light that says Whiskey, which makes the unwritten rule pretty clear. Upon entering the bar, one must take a shot of whiskey, and then immediately deliver a roundhouse kick to the face.

Duh.

So we did some of that, and then kicked everyone's ass in flip cup.

The next day involved tequila, which I learned is never a bad idea, as long as you chase it with pineapple juice. See how much fun she's having?

There were some later effects, however, including Michelle turning Asian,

Lindsay becoming an Italian pizza maker,

and the rest of us growing platinum facial hair.

By the end of the weekend, we fit in really well.

Sex and the City II: Dried Up

2010-06-05T18:52:00.003-04:00

Remember "Saved By the Bell: The College Years"? When they took a group of friends who had clearly gotten older, put them in a different setting, and tried to act like everything was the same?

That's what Sex and the City II was, with tackier clothing and much bigger problems.

Problem #1: Worldwide female oppression. Good thing they are going to the Middle East so they can address the issue. And what better way to do it than by singing "I Am Woman" to a bar full of whistling men?

Way to go, ladies.

Problem #2: A dry vagina. How is Samantha supposed to save feminism, when menopause has her sweating like a heroine addict, and she isn't even turned on by humping a camel?

Luckily, Aladdin's buff grandpa hops a sand dune in his jeep to land himself right in the middle of their desert picnic.

And just like that, Samantha's mojo is back.

She returns to her sleeveless state, gives a hookah a blow job in public, and gets arrested for fucking the guy on the beach.

Meanwhile, Carrie meets up with Aiden (yes, in Abu Dhabi. Where else do you find magic carpets?)

and Charlotte cries because she has kids. One of them even stained her vintage white skirt before she left-- the skirt she likes to wear with her pink cupcake apron while baking hundreds of pink cupcakes.

Unlike Charlotte, Miranda finally embraces motherhood, and gives up her career like any good mother would. No wonder she is uncharacteristically fun by the time they get to Abu Dhabi.

Well, as fun as the smart one can be.

Miranda was actually my favorite in this movie, only because she was the least whiny of the four. I also enjoyed Charlotte falling off a camel, and the three seconds of the movie with this guy.

Besides that, I would rather watch every episode of "Saved By the Bell: The College Years" while making out with the mullet in the Canadian tuxedo than ever have to watch this movie again.

Delilah

2010-03-14T20:45:00.001-04:00

Yeah I listen to Delilah. I also watch "Wheel of Fortune." So?

If you don't know who Delilah is, you are obviously not the mother of three with an "80's, 90's, and now" station pre-set in your mini-van. If you were, you would know that the most listened-to woman on the radio comes on every night at seven.

Lucky for me, I was able to happen upon this gem of a radio show despite my usual disdain for any station that promises to keep it clean for the kids.

I was driving home from the gym one day (the gym near my school, so forty-five minutes away) when I decided to use the seek button to entertain myself. When it led me to "Hero," I did what any goddess-loving American would do, and turned it up loud enough to drown out my own voice with the sweet sound of a Mariah Carey ballad.

Considering the rarity of such music outside of a gay bar, I kept listening in hopes of more. A woman who was clearly one valium away from a coma told me to "slow down and love someone tonight," so I obviously thought this was some sort of sex line. Then she said something about God, and I realized I recognized her voice as the schizo radio version of Dr. Phil.

From just the first few times I heard her in high school and college, I could tell she was crazy. Not like haha silly crazy, but belongs in a rubber room crazy. Then I googled her, and removed all doubt.

Crazy. Remembering this, and having nothing else to do with my time, I kept listening.

Her first call was from the mother of eight whose husband had been shipped to Afghanistan. There was a good twelve minutes of sighing, and I almost changed the station to keep myself from falling asleep or vomitting on my steering wheel when "My Heart Will Go On" snapped me out of it.

Are you kidding me? This is awesome.

I soon discovered that not only is Delilah really not all that caring, but actually quite a bitch. Every line of cheesy advice she gives is laced with condescension. One guy called crying (literally sobbing) because he wanted his girlfriend back. Her words of encouragement? "Well, I don't perform miracles. Only God can do that." All with a smile behind her voice, and no doubt behind those crazy eyes.

Let's get another thing straight about Delilah. She does not take requests. She says she does, because that sounds like a way to use music to help people, but she really just sits there, maybe sighing occassionally depending on if she likes them, while someone talks. Then she plays whatever song she wants.

Take the woman who called about her mother, for example. She wanted to thank her mom for overcoming the obstacles of her life to raise her and her siblings in a loving, though impoverished home. The woman went on to say thank you to her daughter, and to all of the women in her family. Delilah thought that was beautiful. Inspirational women. She told her she would find a song for her and her mother, and played "Man in the Mirror" in her honor.

Then there was Donnie, who called to pay gratitude to his wife. She stays home with their three kids while he is away for weeks at a time, working in the mines.* She cooks for them every night, and cleans the house, all while having a full-time job of her own at the town's library. For them, Delilah played "Uptown Girl."

What a whore.

I don't know what kind of power this woman has over people that allows her to convince them that she cares deeply at the exact same time she is making an ass out of them, but it is hilarious. It is hilarious and inspirational, and I'm not sure what else you can ask for from a late-night radio show.

*People still do that, apparently.

Requests

2010-02-21T22:05:00.003-05:00

To everyone who has given me a hard time about not blogging for two weeks, please know how genuinely serious I am when I say: Suck it.

I love blogging as much as you love reading, but I also have a job. It takes a lot of my time. And I get paid to do my job. Do you want to start paying me for blog entries? If you do, I can promise you a regular posting, depending on the details of our agreement. Until then, entertain yourself.

With that said, I have had a specific request by my friend Terry, who recently invested in a genius product. It took me less than a minute of perusing the website to see that a post about this money-maker would quickly pay for itself.

The Ultimate Squeegee is "the quickest, easiest way to clean all the windows, mirrors, and glass in your home." Even this guy says so, and he's a professional.

The squeegee can power through layers of smudges. Example used for the infommercial demonstration: a layer of oil, topped by a coat of hairspray. Classic. Kimmy Gibbler make out with your window again? Not a problem, if you have The Ultimate Squeegee.

The Ultimate Squeegee is not only the smart choice; it is the moral high road. That's because if you are still using Windex and paper towels, you are destroying the earth. Chemical-based cleaners and disposable trees? You might as well blow up a family of Polar Bears. This guy even refers to ripping off a wad of paper towels as tearing them "from the roots." Like a tree. That's metaphor, people. It might as well be fact.

Here's the secret: The squeegee never dries. The design of the product incorporates a giant sponge and a foot-long blade, all in the same handheld device. See?

It's like throwing a bucket of soapy water at your window and then wiping it off, all in one motion.

Sure all that water has to go somewhere, and sure that "somewhere" is on your floor. But The Ultimate Squeegee is so easy!

"Save time. Save money. Save a tree." Order now, and get a four-foot piece of plastic to clip to your squeegee. Perfect for second-story windows, except that you still won't be able to reach them.

January (Pass or) FAIL

2010-01-31T13:15:00.002-05:00

I made three New Years resolutions this year, and I think the end of January is a good time to think about how it's going.

The way I see it, you either pass or you fail at these things. You do something or you don't. So here's the report, in Pass or Fail fashion, of my resolutions so far this year.

1. STOP SMOKING CIGARETTES. Pass. None. I can't give myself much credit for this, though. It's not an accomplishment to not be a disgusting lunatic.*

2. Don't waste produce. FAIL. I have wasted more produce in the last thirty days than I did in all of 2009. Horrible. Other people are starving. Fail.

3. Stop being a bitch. FAIL at writing all three resolutions in a way that can be easily given a Pass or Fail grade. I actually feel unfit to judge this one right now, because in my mildly hungover, period-consumed state, I'm not really seeing the value in such a goal. Why not just say what I want? Screw everybody else. However, despite my current lack of motivation in this area, I have done a good job. Improvement has been made. If I can just avoid annoying people today, I think we should all be safe for awhile.

*I don't actually think you are a disgusting lunatic if you smoke. Just me, if I smoke. Points for resolution #3?

Basic Needs

2010-01-18T18:32:00.003-05:00

Despite the recent recession, there are some things we just shouldn't live without. Bottle Tops for cans, for example.

We all know that drinking out of a can is hard. What are you supposed to do, drink the whole thing at once? That could cause bloating. But you can't save it for later, because it would spill. No lid. It could lose its fizz. Or a bug could crawl in. What a disaster.

Good thing Bottle Tops turn any can into a bottle. Now you have a bottle lid. On your can. It's like a bottle, but it's not. Because who wants to drink out of a bottle, when you can drink out of a can that's been turned into a bottle?

I don't think I have to tell you that the only thing more catastrophic than sodas are eggs. That's why the second thing we all need is the EZ Cracker.

Now, I know what you're thinking: How racist! I had the same reaction. Like, what, only white people eat eggs? And who you callin' a cracker? Oh yeah, and are you saying all white people are "EZ"? It's really just rude. I decided to get past the name, though, because of the product's function.

As the infomercial points out, we have all completely missed our pan before, squirting yoke directly into a burner.

And who hasn't choked on a shell while eating a muffin?

The EZ Cracker puts an end to all that. It takes one of life's messiest, most dangerous problems, and it offers a solution. No more flinging yokes around the kitchen, and no more spitting shells into your coffee.

Cracking eggs, drinking liquids... It's too much for one person to handle. That's why I'm thankful every day for the creations with which we have been blessed.

Say My Name, Slave!

2010-01-10T01:41:00.001-05:00

James doesn't know anyone's name.  Anthony has lived in my building for four years, and talks to James everyday. He doesn't know his name, and Anthony doesn't care.

Maybe that's because Anthony gets called Hey, which is less annoying than Baby. I know James doesn't know any better, but I'm not going to respond to "Baby." So I told him my name, and that I wasn't going to talk to him unless he used it.

The next time I saw him, he yelled "Hey Baby!" and said he forgot my name. I reminded him. Then I reminded him the next day. And the next day. And almost every day for the next year and a half. He still doesn't know my name.

Until this past New Years. On New Years day, James wandered into Anthony's first-floor apartment, where a bunch of us were getting re-hammered and eating pizza.  James looked at me and said "Hey Baby." What the fuck?

"James! What's my name? I tell you every time I see you."

Mumblemumblemumblemumble...

"James!"

"It's Holly. I know your name."

Good.  Finally. "Then use it."

So now he does. It has been a nightly tradition of James' for awhile to stand on his stoop and yell, intermixing incoherent babble with his two favorite words, baby and hey. It crossed my mind a couple of times that he could actually be talking to me, but then I realize how creepy that would be. I mean, he is outside. I'm upstairs, in my apartment. I'm sure he is yelling at people on the sidewalk, or maybe someone on our porch.

Then he started adding my name to the list of words to yell. Now it's baby, hey, Holly, or any combination of the three. Still, he can't be yelling at me. He probably just wants to use his new word. Right...? Either way, I just ignore him.

Or at least try to. Last Sunday, it was 8:30 in the morning, and I had already heard my name at least five times.  Then I heard a bunch of sing-songing babble, and "I don't even have a girlfriend."

Jesus Christ, this is getting weird. Good thing he will forget my name again in another week.

New Year's Demands

2010-01-03T20:43:00.000-05:00

Since I am motivated best by tough love, and less by soft suggestions, or even statements (resolutions), I decided it is more appropriate to refer to this list as demands. Either way, I am taking the opportunity of a new year to nail down three things that have to be done.

1. STOP SMOKING CIGARETTES. Seriously, what is this 1993? It's fucking sick. Cigarettes smell like ass. Oh yeah, and cigarettes don't smell any less like ass just because you are wasted. Stop it.

2. Don't waste produce. It's so good, and it's good for you. Just eat it before it goes bad. You can barely afford good produce as it is, and you definitely can't afford to waste it. Plus, there are these issues called "poverty" and "starvation," which you are basically kicking in the face every time you trash a half bag of grapes.

3. Hurt no one. Really, it's embarrassing that this even has to be said, but physical harm to others is not ever going to be okay. Not even if you're drunk. Not even if it's an accident. Not even if everyone laughed when it happened, including the person you karate chopped while pretending to be a samurai. Oh yeah, and try not being a bitch, too. Before you say something, think about how it might affect the people around you. Even if it's a factual statement; even if it's an opinion you can back up; even if it's just a joke in order to give someone a hard time. These types of comments can actually be hurtful to some people. You see, some people have feelings. If you think your comment may hurt those feelings, consider saying it in a nicer way. Or (even better) just don't say it at all.

Blog Awards

2010-01-02T19:48:00.000-05:00

Squires called me the other day and said I needed to read her blog. She said there was a surprise on it for me, which I assumed was either cash or a new car. Then I realized that would be impossible, but I like her blog (Diary of a Blonde Bob) so I decided to check it out anyway. Turns out, she passed on two blogging awards to me. I like awards, so I was happy. Here they are, along with my responses.

The first award is the Happy 101 Award, so here are ten things that make me happy.

1. Filling out calendars.
2. Oversized green olives that are hard and not mushy. The best I ever had were in a Bloody Mary from the Bellagio.
3. Buying shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and body wash. Conditioner is my favorite. I just like buying it, so I always have at least three bottles in my shower, and a couple more in my cabinet. I get excited to run out (or run low), so I have an excuse to buy more.
4. The ice that's like well-packed little snowballs. They have it at Sonic, and at Frisch's in Ohio. It makes a fountain Diet Coke even more enjoyable.
5. Trips to Target that involve hours of aimless wandering. (Stolen from Squires at http://blondebobdiary.blogspot.com/, but still so, so true.) I'm actually convinced this is the best cure for a hangover.
6. My nine-Oprah sweatshirt. Non-hooded sweatshirts are funny anyway, but this one has nine pictures of Oprah on it. I found it at Goodwill. It's fat Oprah too, which is even better. And warmer.

7. Cinnabears. Not to be confused with gummi bears, these treats are far too sugary to stick in your teeth, and can only be found at select Pilot gas stations. Definitely worth several stops on any road trip.
8. Going to sushi with my friends. Especially when it's half price and someone gives me their ginger.
9. Running outside. Good thing, since at least half of the things on this list involve eating or drinking.
10. SkyMall magazine. I know this seems silly, and it is, but it truly does bring me joy. So much joy that I had to write a blog about it almost a year ago.

For the Sugar Doll award, I'm supposed to list ten facts about me. One fact about me is that I don't usually do what I'm supposed to. So instead, here are ten awesome things I did over Christmas break.

1. Listened to at least six hours of music from the 90's, thanks to Brandon's taste and a road trip to Ohio. Favorites included K-Ci and JoJo, Boyz II Men, Toni Braxton, Celine Dion's Christmas songs, and lots and lots of Mariah Carey.
2. Fixed a 1,000 piece puzzle. As you can see, Santa was sewing a quilt on the puzzle. He also had a cat. Lies is what this puzzle was made of, but my grandma and a couple others said I wouldn't be able to finish it, so I had to.

3. Saw Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Squeakquel. Even after the widespread success of the first movie, the chipmunk rendition of "Single Ladies" did not disappoint.

4. Ear-candled the shit out of my sister. Ear candles are awesome, and Audrey has more wax build-up than a menorah. The result: lots of inner-ear crackling, a pained but relieved look on the face of my patient, and piles of orange, bubbling wax.

5. Gave my mom a Snuggie for Kids. Her reaction, which I still don't understand, was to threaten me while attempting to channel her non-existent ghetto side. Exact words: "You had better watch your back, girlfriend!" I guess that means she liked it...?

6. Waited in line for an hour at Honey Baked Ham. Wait, that wasn't awesome. That sucked.
7. Found the cure for headaches. Chew a crunchy (but not too hard) snack, and drink a highball. A highball can be made by mixing whiskey with any clear soda. The Chex from party mix works well for the snack. Actually, my grandpa was the one who found this cure, after much experimentation. Less successful: holding an ice pack on your head while blow-drying your face.
8. Worked out less than three times. And no, it wasn't just twice. There is such thing as a half workout.
9. Saw Lady Gaga at The Fox.

10. Watched The Hangover and Super Troopers on the same day.

'Tis the Season

2009-12-23T12:05:00.000-05:00

There are good sales around the holidays that you just shouldn't pass up. If you do, you are wasting money. And I don't mean just gift-buying. While you're out there, you might as well buy the things you need, too. It saves time. Here are some of my favorite time and money savers of the season.

Shoes from dsw.com: Free shipping, better selection, and you can return them to any DSW store if you need to. I needed something to replace my grey New Balances I had since college, and the store was rather picked over. So I consulted the website. Behold the sporty but cute, most comfortable shoes I have ever owned, delivered directly to my doorstep for only $59.99.

Nail Polish: I saw the new OPI "Holiday Wishes" collection at Van Michael last time I got my hair cut. The colors are brilliant. Here are my favorites.

Glove You So Much!, Merry Midnight, Smitten With Mittens, and Dear Santa.

Of course my nail place didn't have any of them yet, so I went with "I'm Not Really A Waitress." This classic is also perfect for the holidays, but I will most likely still go by Ulta for the new colors. My mom just told me they have them buy two get one free.

Music to Download:

"If This Isn't Love," Jennifer Hudson

"Wait Your Turn," Rihanna

"Try Sleeping With a Broken Heart," Alicia Keys (She's so good, but I'm not sure about the rest of the album. I know she has a song on there with Beyonce, which can't be bad. Speaking of Beyonce...),

"Telephone," Lady Gaga featuring Beyonce. This was my ringtone until I had to swith to "All I Want for Christmas is You."

Actually, you need to just buy the whole Lady Gaga cd. The Fame Monster. Buy it. It's eight songs, which I was pissed about until I realized I don't get through more than eight songs of a cd anyway. It's eight good songs, including "Bad Romance," "Telephone," and "Monster," and she uses some version of the word vamp at least six times. So good.

Jeans: Express is apparently never going to not have their jeans Buy One Get One Half-Off, so take advantage. I love their new line, Rerock (which I definitely referred to as Bedrock when asking the fitting room attendant for a different size). I got the Rerock boot cut medium wash. Cute.

I still have a gift to buy. But at least I have already saved a lot of money on myself.

Snuggie Meets Assless Chaps

2009-12-14T07:03:00.002-05:00

I actually think this product is the Snuggie's exact opposite. It has the only two things the blanket with sleeves is missing, which are a hood and a wedgie. One good, the other great, how could you go wrong with the Hood Thong?

Don't think this is a joke. The product is for real, and should be viewed as fashion, if not art. How do I know? Because the designers are European. Swedish actually. Even better for sales, given the whole Tiger Woods' wife flees to her Swedish hometown thing.

Also, at least one of the designers is responsible for this.

A man dressed as a polar bear. Fahion. Art. If this is for real, why not the hood thong?

Go to http://www.hoodthong.com/ to order. My only two worries: They don't ask for a size, and the accompanying nipple tassles aren't guarenteed. In that case, it might get cold.

The Gift of Giving

2009-12-13T23:04:00.000-05:00

My first year teaching I got awesome gifts-- a Vera Bradley wallet, and enough Starbucks gift cards to last me through May, among the standard baked goods, cocoa mixes, and holiday mugs. The next year, I got a great set of coasters, a few delicious-smelling candles, and some lotion.  Last year: a Grill-Master recipe holder, two pieces of jewelry picked out by male students, and a couple jars of candy.

I don't know if it's the economy, our student population, or my disposition, but for some reason, the gifts have dwindled.

That's completely fine.  My kids don't need to get me anything at all. I'm sure I didn't give my teachers anything in middle school, and a lot of my parents will have a hard enough time getting their own family gifts this year.

But just in case, I have decided to make the student-to-teacher gift-giving as positive an experience as possible, for all involved. After all, in such difficult times, people shouldn't be wasting money on gifts that won't be used. This is a recession. I can't have people buying things for me that I don't want. That's why this year, I have to make sure that doesn't happen. This year, I have a plan.

Tier one of this plan is in my own gift giving. I always get my homeroom kids a little something, whether it is a card, candy... something. Usually, I give it to them on Friday. This year, I will give them out tomorrow. The Monday before break. Four days before the last day they have to give me a gift.

I made my kids little foam ornaments this year. I found them at Michael's, and bought one set of snowflakes, and one set of snowmen and polar bears in little Santa hats. Absolutely ridiculous. They will love them. Here's the trick: I wrote each of their names on them, with a little "Happy Holidays from Ms. Oldham" note. I will tell them how much I love them, and how happy I am that they are my students, and then give them their ornaments. They will melt.

Then, just as they are all warm and ooey gooey inside, I move on to Tier Two.  During Tier Two, I casually mention that I would love some bold Expo markers, construction (or otherwise colored) paper, and gift cards from Office Depot, Target, and/or Borders, in case anyone was wondering. Oh yeah, and my birthday is over break as well, making this week appropriate gift-giving time for multiple occassions. Just saying.

No need for gifts. Really. I just love the act of giving. And if I can give the gift of giving to children, why not help them give me what I want?

Update on a Slave

2009-11-28T10:52:00.001-05:00

Unfortunately for my neighbor, he is a slave. If you aren't familiar with James, help yourself to the first slave post.

People assume I'm kidding when I say this, or maybe exaggerating. Then I tell them what happens at least three times a week:

A horn blares five to six times, followed by less than seven seconds of silence. There are then three more blares before James shuffles onto the driveway, barefoot and squinting into the headlights.

He hobbles to the driver's side door, reaches in to retrieve two or three bags, and waits for Jack to get out. When he does, he grunts something and James follows him to the front door. With his bags. Slave.

Currently, James is ridding of every leaf in the front yard while yelling incoherently, pausing occasionally to chuck another full bag over the fence, or to spit. Loudly.

My parents were visiting from Ohio this past weekend for Thanksgiving, so they came to pick me up for coffee one morning. They pulled into the driveway, only to be met by James' babbling, heightened in volume and directed at their vehicle.

I know this because when I walked outside, their looks of bewilderment only doubled when I waved, said "Hey James," and then told him to shut up. They assumed he was homeless, and had broken into the neighbor's gated property.

Nope, he lives there. For the small price of meticulous manual labor, and the freedom to operate machinery larger than a leaf blower.

Three Things

2009-11-15T11:49:00.000-05:00

From least to most annoying.

1. Every time I have to type in that security code to post a link on facebook or comment on a blog, I feel like I'm being punked. The words make just enough sense together to fuck with you, like "mouse careen," and "tournament menacing." So I start thinking someone is trying to communicate with me through inverted, two-word messages.

I'm like "shelter find"?!? That must mean Ida is going to flood my house and ruin my life. Or maybe a meteor is headed directly for my face.

Seriously, it's like a web Ouji board. There are clearly spirits in a lost realm of the html universe trying to get our attention. Why else would the words be all squiggly?

2. It sounded like a bird was being raped outside my window this morning. I would say murdered, but then it wouldn't have been able to screech in a repetitive, four-chirp succession for over an hour, because it would have died.

I was trying to sleep. It was invading my ear space.

Then people have the audacity to act like that noise is a good thing. The birds are singing. Like this is a Disney movie, and a Blue Jay is going to land on your shoulder to whistle a tune.

In real life, whistling is annoying and that's the worst voice I have ever heard.

3. If you drive a Hummer, get out of the carpool lane. Really, you think one extra person in that earth-destroying beast is going to offset your carbon footprint? I'm pretty sure you over payed for that monster truck look-alike so you could drive over other cars anyway.

Maybe if you have eight people in it at one time, you can ride in the HOV lane. Maybe. You still have some balls, but I guess it takes balls to drive a world-ruining vehicle in the first place.

Offended? Fantastic.

2009-11-02T19:54:00.001-05:00

This year, the city of Atlanta decided to make a freak-child of a party by cramming the gay Pride festival into the same weekend as Halloween. When I woke up that Sunday in a body suit costume with a fake bloody pad, I was absolutely sure I was going to die.

Until I realized I could keep drinking.

The gayest parade in the land was only a few hours away, and we had plenty of time to get some food before then.

My friends and I have made the mistake before of going to brunch, ordering a Bloody Mary, and being reminded it's the Lord's day. So we enjoyed a cocktail on my porch before we headed to Park Tavern.

I ate sushi for breakfast, and we ordered drinks at 12:30. Then we got them around 1:00. Whatever, the patio was nice, and we had brought a Nalgene of whiskey. Plus, the parade was just on the other side of the park. We payed our tabs and walked over.

Cartwheeled, actually. Who wants to walk when you can cartwheel?

We find a spot on the sidewalk and wave at shirtless men as they pass on floats, roller skates, and other shirtless men. We encourage parade participants with comments like "I would eat your ass out of those chaps with a spoon" and "If I was a dude, I would totally have your babies." Just a little something to keep them going.

We feed them Cheez-Its-- pepper jack-- and dance to the music on their shouldered boom boxes. It's all about keeping the gays happy.

Easy enough, unless you count the pack of lesbians next to us. Josh says something about what he wants to do to an approaching horse, which apparently includes the F word.

"You really need to watch your language." This girl whips around, and I notice her hair looks a lot like a hamster. "There are kids around, you know."

Josh and I both look around. All around, in every direction. Kids? I don't see any kids.

Oh wait, there's one. I think I see a stroller. Or maybe it's a kite. Too far away to tell.

I decide we are simply being discriminated upon based on our sexual preference, and continue throwing Cheez-Its at oncoming parade traffic.

Eventually the street sweeper is the only traffic left, so I give him some pepper jack love and we all skip home.

The Local

2009-10-20T12:10:00.001-04:00

It's a little bar on Ponce, right across from the store I affectionately refer to as Crack Kroger. Also on Ponce is Clermont Lounge (where sixty-year-old strippers pay for their own music on a jukebox) and a dark green box with one neon sign that says "Dugan's." I'm working on assumption here, but I can only guess that Dugan's offers cans of PBR, Marlboro's from a machine, and heroine.

The Local looks much nicer though, so when Caroline invites me to meet her and a coworker there for a drink, I don't hesitate.

When I sit down, I introduce myself to Caroline's friend and her boyfriend, and give my order to a bored but friendly server. It's 5:30 on a Monday, and we are the only people on the patio.

She brings out my drink along with Hannah's hush puppies, and talks to us for awhile before going back inside.

A few minutes later, a guy in an apron comes outside and saunters to our table. "Hey, any of you see a guy walking around here, pretty drunk?"

I am the only one who knows what he's talking about, so I answer. "Yeah, I almost hit him with my car."

"On purpose?" he asks.

I explain how some dude was stumbling through the parking lot when I pulled in, and I didn't have much of a choice.

"Well, I guess he was down at Dugan's for awhile, then wandered over to Clermont Lounge. They just called from over there. Said when they kicked him out, he dropped his bag, and a gun fell out."

Oh shit.

"Yeah so I'm gonna lock the door. If he comes back, just, ya know, don't provoke him."

Oh okay. Yeah, that sounds good. Not provoking him. Better than coming in with you, for sure.

Better than my original plan, which was to whizz lukewarm hush puppies at the guy with a pistol in his Kroger bag. Good thing the manager is around to keep us safe. Staying out here, locked out, not provoking. Definitely the way to go.

And it worked. Sure it was scary for a few minutes, watching the servers pull down the blinds, looking over our shoulders for the plastic-clad firearm to resurface.

But we lived. Not because we were somewhere safe, but because we weren't. And I have only The Local to thank.

Nobel Peace Prize: Bad for No One

2009-10-10T17:26:00.000-04:00

I don't like Taylor Swift. I think her music sucks. But I didn't get angry when she won an MTV award. Why? Because that would have been irrational. An award given to someone else could not possibly be a bad thing for me. It could not affect my life negatively. Ever.

That's why I don't understand how anyone could be angry about Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I understand that you don't like him. He's a socialist, he's trying to make you pay for sick people you don't care about, and he's not even white. But I still don't understand how him winning something could be a bad thing.

First of all, we are talking about the Nobel Peace Prize. It's an award for peace. And people are angry about it. Don't make me explain the irony.

Second, did you think you were going to win?

I won't pretend to know enough about the Nobel criteria to judge whether or not Obama deserved the prize. I think we can all agree that keeping John McCain out of office is a significant contribution to world peace, but is that enough? I couldn't tell you. The truth is, it doesn't matter. It wasn't up to me to decide. And chances are, if you're reading this, it wasn't up to you either.

So stop pulling a Kanye, and step off.

The Chinese Buffet

2009-10-02T07:07:00.000-04:00

When you wake up Sunday morning in the clothes you wore out Saturday, it seems like the only way to erase bad decisions is to make one more.

Sometimes it's a Bloody Mary at brunch, sometimes it's checking your sent texts from the night before. And sometimes it's entering the dim underworld of egg rolls and dragons, escaping reality one crab Rangoon at a time.

That's right, the Chinese buffet. Where salad means chocolate pudding, and you never have to ask for more Duck sauce. We decide this needs to be our destination, and tell Caroline to put her iPhone to good use. As we dream of what is soon to be, we see Caroline is having trouble. "All these places only have like three stars," she says.

Three stars? Let's not get crazy here. We're not looking for great reviews; we're looking for hangover help. Three stars means they might have a menu, and might not deep fry half the entrees. Three stars means the booths may not be duct taped, and we are in no condition for anything over two.

Then it hits me: Grand Buffet II, on Piedmont in Buckhead. I have seen it from the outside, but never ventured in.

Immediately upon arrival, Jacoby, Caroline and I drop our purses at a table, order Diet Cokes and waters without sitting, and head for the MSG mecca. Right before I sit down, I take a closer look at my chair.

"Oh my god, someone pooped on this one." Then I see they are all like that. Whatever.

Halfway through plate one, I remember the magic of cheap Chinese restaurants-- the spell cast over you as you look around at the fringed lamps swaying from the ceiling, and the twelve different pictures of the same guy, smiling next to a different landmark in each.

You realize that what you thought was authentic Asian music is actually "Light My Fire," remixed with mandolins and bamboo flutes, pushing you further into a trance that sends you for seconds and thirds of low mein and teriyaki. You aren't sure you could escape this fantasy hell even if you wanted to, so you just keep eating.

Caroline is the first to break from the ring of lukewarm entrees to the plastic table of desserts. I have been eying the soft serve since we walked in, so I ask her how it is when I see her bowl. She says "cold," so Jacoby and I laugh at her as I get my own.

Strangely, she's right. The ice cream is cold. Really, really, abnormally cold. It's more ice than cream, and definitely not soft. It's also more yellow than I think vanilla should be, and I briefly consider stopping after the first bite. Then I eat my soup bowl full and tell Caroline I'm glad I don't have sensitive teeth like her.

I come back from the restroom a few minutes later to find our check with three fortune cookies. Score. Jacoby says if we say "in bed" afterwards she will puke, and we all agree to read them without additions.

Caroline's promises success in her career, and Jacoby's predicts recognition for her hard work. General, positive outlooks for the future, as all fortunes should be.

Then there is mine. "You look pretty." There is a smiley face on each side. Are you kidding me? It's in present tense. And that's creepy. How would you even know?

Then I decide it's the best non-fortune ever, and bite into the stale cookie. Although I wouldn't give it great reviews on any iPhone app, I'm definitely satisfied with our two-star experience.

The Second Coming

2009-09-17T19:17:00.001-04:00

The first time Britney came, I had a two-hour anxiety attack, experienced pure nirvana, and attended the official after party. It was the greatest night of my life. I had to go again. There was nothing that could make me that happy ever again. But the next closest stop was London, and that would cost two months rent. How would I live with such longing?

Then I found out the Circus tour was coming back to Atlanta. I hyperventilated, called Squires, and put "Baby One More Time" on repeat.

Brandon and Caroline agreed to go with us, so we ordered four tickets and counted down the days. By the time the Friday of the concert got here, we had the perfect plan. Squires would ride with me to work, and the day would go like this:

Listen to Britney at volume 24 in the car. Avoid all after-school obligations to get out of there asap. Dinner and drinks at Thrive at 6:00. Stumble to the Phillips in time to see Jordin Sparks open with "No Air."
Jacoby, our friend from work, was catching a ride downtown with me and Squires, so she was along for the Britney sing-along.

The three of us are driving down 85, listening to "Sometimes," reminiscing about the days of innocent Britney, when traffic stops. Fast. I slam on my brakes, mom-belt Jacoby, and watch three other cars run off the road from behind us. I silently congratulate myself for not slamming into anyone. God, I'm a good driver.

BAM! Doesn't matter how good you are when the bitch behind you sucks.

I yell some obscenities, confirm that Squires's Diet Coke is the only mangled victim, and get out to go through the cop/insurance routine.

My bumper looks like it got stabbed, but I know they can just put a new one on like the last three times this happened, and all I need is a police report. The girl in the other car walks toward me, stubs out her menthol, and apologizes for the puncture wound. She says her flip-flop got caught on the pedal, and she was headed to work at Arrow.

I'm sorry, where?

"You know, Arrow... at the mall?"

No, I do not.

I think she glances at her baby tee at this point. "Aeropostale?"

Oh AERO! Duhhhh. If you would have texted it to me, I totally would have understood.

I see that I will be taking care of everything here, and dial 9-1-1. A fire engine, ambulance, and police car show up almost immediately. Nice.

Then they do nothing to help, get back in their vehicles, and leave. Apparently there is another accident with injuries, so we will have to wait. We wave from the side of the highway as they drive away. Now what?

Now we turn Britney back up, bust a blanket out of my trunk for seating, and get as much attention as possible. Jacoby makes a "Got beer?" sign, and waves it in windows of the nearly stopped traffic. An old lady chucks a bag of mini rice cakes at us from her van, and we take what we can get.

Alright this is fun, but it's cutting into our perfect plan, and this picnic is missing vodka.

I call 9-1-1 again, which goes promptly to voicemail. No I do not want to leave a message. The guy who answers next calls me "babe," so I take a deep breath to avoid bitching him out in the spirit of getting a cop to the scene.

When the cop car pulls up, a small child in a uniform gets out, and I decide it must be Take Your Son To Work Day. He asks some questions, unsure of where to look with so many girls around, and the absence of any accompanying adult tells me this is our cop.

He goes to his car to file a report (on his Etch A Sketch?) and we leave. Back on track to Britney.

Squires and I go straight to the arena to meet Brandon and Caroline, and while we are waiting for them outside, I stand up to throw something away. I look to my right, and see a giant pair of boobs with a blonde weave walking toward me. This woman (man?) is wearing a vest that is several sizes too small, and has the stringy hair of a drag queen, or maybe a Barbie Doll.

Wait a minute, Crack Barbie hair, and cleavage to match? That's Kim from the Real Housewives! I freeze like if I blink she will disappear, and then sprint back to Squires. I jump up and down like a kid who just got a reality star for Christmas, and point and smile at my new toy.

She poses for pictures and pretends to be a real celebrity, and then I laugh and point some more when Brandon and Caroline get there. I usually only get to do this through my TV. Things are looking up.

We go into the concert and get vodka drinks and a free ticket upgrade. Awesome. Apparently they didn't sell enough seats to fill the arena, so now we are close enough to Kim (and drunkenness) to yell "Don't be tardy for the party."

We are also close enough to the stage to observe Britney's outfits in detail, including a new gold-studded body suit and white leotard with matching too-too. She spends approximately 35% of the concert either on top of or inside one of the show's many cages. The rest of the time, she is surrounded by either a moving frame or a flock of backup dancers, all there to create the illusion that she is actually dancing.

I decide that I need this job: doing the least amount of work possible while everyone else surrounds me to make the opposite seem true. I could wear sparkly leotards that only pop stars and four-year-old gymnasts can pull off, all while being the center of attention.

Then I remember how hard it is to pee in a leotard, and decide fame isn't worth going to rehab. Living vicariously through Britney and making fun of Real Housewives is way more fun.

The Take Care Clinic

2009-08-28T20:50:00.000-04:00

Sure it’s in Walgreen's, and yes the waiting room is in the middle of the cold and flu aisle, but it’s right down the road. You don't need an appointment. I felt like crap, so I sucked it up and decided it couldn't be as weird as the first time.

The first time, I had to carry my own pee cup across the drug store. Then the nurse guy told me he understands why I have a UTI, because he hates peeing after sex too.

This time I just have a sinus infection, which surely won't warrant any awkward conversation.

This time, the person who calls me into the office introduces herself as Patricia. She’s not the creepy guy from before, and she’s wearing a sparkly scrunchie. Points for Patricia. This is a good start.

She asks me for my I.D. and insurance card before turning to her computer for lots of typing and mouse clicking. I sit there quietly until my phone rings, and I answer it. It's Squires. I talk for maybe a minute before Patricia gets pissy. She turns away from her computer, says “No cell phones allowed,” and points at a sign on the wall. What do you know, she’s right.

I tell Squires I will call her back, and wait silently for another seven minutes of typing and clicking.

Then comes an interrogation period of at least fifteen questions, one hunred percent of which I am confident Patricia could have answered herself. Example one: Any change in voice?

For the entirety of our conversation, I have barely strained above a whisper. When I managed to do so, I squeaked like a twelve year old boy. That is not anyone’s normal voice.

I almost don’t hear question three, “Have you been coughing?” because I am coughing. Seriously.

She then asks me about my last period and why I’m not on birth control, which I’m pretty sure has nothing to do with a sinus infection. She starts making recommendations, such as “Well, unless you want more kids, you better get on something.”

More kids?

“Weren’t you just talking to your kid on the phone?”

“Umm, no…”

“Oh.” She laughs. “Well you know what they call someone who’s sexually active and not on birth control…”

No, please tell me.

“Pregnant!”

Hilarious, Patricia. Just hilarious.

I am unsure at this point why she thinks it is okay to give such advice, or even assume that I am sexually active. Maybe I’m a virgin. Maybe I practice abstinence, with a little help from sparkly hair accessories like hers to ward off temptation. And why did she think that was my kid on the phone? This is so strange, but I need to stay focused and get out of here.

After turning down offers for ear drops, an inhaler, and multiple forms of contraception, I finally score some Amoxicillin. I escape, NuvaRing free, and buy a pack of scrunchies on my way out.

I got a bill the other day.

2009-08-23T20:34:00.000-04:00

It was for $461, and from a hospital, so I figured it was for my ambulance ride with the hottie. Not a horrible price, really. It could have been worse.

But it wasn't for that. It was for the ultra sound I had two days later, when a lady splooged cold gel all over me, and then poked at my boob for twenty minutes. Four-hundred sixty-one dollars.

The day before I got the bill, I dropped $176 at French Connection. I don't have $176, and I certainly don't have 176+461 dollars. F.c.u.k. me. Something has to be done.

I'm not quite desperate enough for prostitution... What to do? I thought back to when I was about eight, and my brother and I would scrounge up old toys (or Audrey's) and hold unsupervised garage sales for cash.

Now I'm older, there's this thing called the Internet, and I have bigger toys. Craigslist it is. I already returned the bike rack I bought (and used) to Target. Now the bike has to go too.

That bike has spent more time in my laundry room than that pair of underwear that disappeared under the dryer the first week I moved in. I bought it (the bike, not the pair of underwear) a few months ago when I started training for a triathlon, and I kept telling myself I would use it for transportation too. I would save the earth, avoid city traffic, and get a workout at the same time.

Turns out, biking sucks. You have to find somewhere to lock it up, and navigate routes with bike lanes (or at least a road wide enough to not get killed). It's scary. It's hot. Just give me my car.

Biking is also a pain in the ass. Literally. I told myself for awhile that I hadn't given it enough of a chance-- I just had to get use to it. Then came the triathlon. I rode that fucker for thirteen miles, and got so use to it that the bike literally became part of my crotch for a significant period of time. I'm pretty sure the seat was actually lodged into my vagina at one point.

Once I managed to separate myself from it, I felt like I had been raped like Charlize Theron in Monster. I started holding a grudge the way anyone would against the cause of such immense pain, and decided I had given it enough of a chance. I got use to it, and now I'm getting rid of it.

I'm going for $150, which should cover about five minutes of the boob scan.

Never Again

2009-08-17T07:28:00.001-04:00

I was against it from the beginning. It made me think of slimy tile and wads of hair, and the parts of freshman year that I remember. But it was the only way to make Monday nights happen, and Squires convinced me it would be painless. So, I packed a travel size body wash with my workout clothes, and agreed to shower at the gym.

Spinning is at the LA Fitness (pronounced la fitness, like fa so la ti do) near the school where I teach on Mondays. This class can not be missed. The instructor plays Britney Spears and Beyonce in a mix that makes working out feel like dancing on a bike. It's like Opera on a Saturday night, without the unwanted groping and life-ruining decisions.

Half price sushi is also on Mondays, and if I don't have my tropical roll once a week, things get ugly. Mild tremors are involved, along with delusion and outright anger. Squires and I meet my brother and whoever else can make it every week, and it's a tradition neither of us are willing to break.

So you see, two spectacular events, one which should not involve a significant amount of sweat.

The first week, it's fine. We wear flip flops and take care of business quickly, rinsing off enough to avoid any unwanted odor.

Week two, we know what to expect. Squires goes into the same shower she had the week before, and I grab the one across from her. I finish first, so I wrap my towel around me and open the curtain. This time, however, it is not the naked Asian of last week that I see. It is something much, much worse.

My jaw drops. What the....? I close the curtain, still standing in the shower.

What the FUCK? I stand there for a minute, hoping this isn't real. I open the curtain again. Oh my god.

This woman is squatting on the ledge of the shower next to the stall Squires is in, panting and moaning, peeing in the shower.

Yes, peeing. Yes, in the shower. With the curtain open. Jeans at her ankles. Directly in front of me.

I am staring at her. I can't look away. Apparently, not only has the scene horrified me, but has actually made me incapable of movement. I am paralyzed.

"I'm sorry," she says. She's still moaning. "I couldn't find the bathrooms, and it was an emergency."

You couldn't find the bathrooms? Are you kidding me? You had to pass them to get in here. What the hell is wrong with this woman?

By this time, Squires has opened her shower curtain, and I manage to turn my open-mouth stare to her.

She laughs. I do not. This is not funny. What is going on?

I don't want to leave Squires with this woman, who is maybe still moaning, and definitely still peeing. I have decided that she is dangerous, as her current decisions are a clear sign of psychological instability, and her future actions could therefore not be foreseen.

But Squires says go ahead, so I book it. I walk to one of the seven completely open, easy to find, bathroom stalls, and pee in a toilet.

I keep looking over my shoulder when I'm getting dressed and ready, still fearing a shooting spree, or some other violent rampage that most likely follows shower peeing.

I still don't know whether this lady was pilled out, losing control of her bodily functions due to illness, or just naturally imbalanced. I just know that I will never be the same, naive showerer, believing the hair of a stranger was the most dangerous part of a locker room.

I also know that this will never be happening again. Never, ever again. I will skip sushi, or sweat all over the person next to me, but I will never shower at that gym again.

A "Sinkable Episode"

2009-07-31T19:06:00.000-04:00

Three days after I landed myself in the ER, I knew I had to tell my mother. I had put it off, as she is a bit of a spaz—a hypochondriac who enjoys adding drama to any situation-- so this had to be done carefully.

I call and tell her I went for a run and passed out, but that all the tests showed I was just dehydrated. She says “Oh my gosh” and “Oh Holly” at least four times, and then fires off ways I should have avoided the incident.

“You really need to be drinking water.” Her profound cure for dehydration.

I tell her I drink so much water that my Nalgene has become part of my identity, to which she responds that I am clearly drinking too much water. I am flushing my body of all nutrients.

I also need to be taking vitamins, not running so much, not running at all, maybe just staying inside if it’s hot. Or sunny.

We hang up and she calls back twelve minutes later. She says I need some electrolytes, and I tell her to get off WebMD.* I agree to at least consider drinking a Gatorade, and she says I should also take iron pills. I say absolutely not, and she tells me I should have my head examined.

Oh don’t worry, I already did. While I have been told on numerous occasions that I needed my head examined, this little trip to the ER was the first time it actually happened. When the guy in the CT room asked why I was having it done, I said it had something to do with concrete to the head. I told him about how an hour earlier, I had woken up on a sidewalk, and had a gash to prove it.

I didn't notice the gash right away, but I could tell something was wrong. I woke up in a position that seemed to be perfect for a light nap, or perhaps some midday sun bathing, but who does that on the sidewalk? Or in tennis shoes?

Then I heard “Call 9-1-1.” Yeah, this wasn’t good.

I sat up and recognized the woman jumping up and down and yelling for help in the street. She was right next to me a minute before, when we were both waiting at the crosswalk. I remembered her smiling at me, because she was missing every one of her front teeth.

I think I tried to smile back, but I got dizzy and grabbed onto a pole. Clearly, it wasn’t much help.

There was constant jabbering in my left ear that I had blocked out until now—talk about training football teams, and “this dehydration thing.” I turned, ready to tell him to shut up, but his plaid shirt and khakis reminded me that he was probably on his lunch break, and it was nice that he had stopped to help.

He stood up when a van pulled over next to us, and the driver said “An ambulance is on its way.”

Ambulance? Yeah I didn’t really budget for that this month, so that’s not going to work for me.

Before I could protest, the woman with no teeth ran back over with a cop behind her. The cop didn’t even try to keep up, and ignored each of the six times she said “I saw the whole thing!”

He asked me a few time-wasting questions, like “Where do you live?” while he looked over his shoulder at the street. He was clearly bored by the girl who couldn’t hold herself up.

I told the cop I was okay, that I shouldn’t need an ambulance, but plaid man wasn’t having it. He changed his topic of conversation from dehydration to concussions, and my hand went to the back of my head.

Now that you mention it, this pounding is worse than the time I chased a bottle of Bacardi Razz with margarita mix. I agreed to let them check me out when they got there, but not to go to the hospital.

As the ambulance pulled up, no-teeth once again shouted “I saw the whole thing!” The cop walked away, and plaid man walked to the driver’s side. He rattled off an approximation of how long I was out, instructions on what part of my head to check, and the qualifications that make him an expert (i.e. which little league teams he has coached).

An EMT got out, thanked them, and crouched next to me. I told him I thought I was okay, but he did some routine checks and grabbed both my hands to help me up. He laughed at some part of my incoherent babble, and I decided his smile and gorgeous black curls weren’t just a figment of my post-faint imagination. He was hot.

So hottie EMT walked me to his ambulance and laid me on a stretcher inside. I’m sure he told me his name, but I can’t be expected to remember these things. I tried to read his name tag, but everything was fuzzy, so all I could make out was part of a last name that I decided was Italian.

He said something about how he would have to worry all day if he didn’t take me to the hospital, but his smooth talk was unnecessary at this point. I had resigned. Take me wherever you want.

I requested the siren, so we made it seven blocks in five minutes—just long enough for me to realize I was covered in gravel, and there was an entire bush worth of twigs in my hair. An extremely attractive, employed man in uniform has no choice but to give me all of his attention, and I'm road kill. Perfect.

We stopped, and they yanked the stretcher out, swooshed me through some double doors, and yelled “sinkable episode” at a nurse’s station.

They wheeled me to room 17, and the cute one gave information to a nurse. He said he hoped I felt better, and I started to say something about waiving my patient confidentiality rights so he could use my number for his personal use. Really, I don’t mind.

But it made me tired and I had to lie back down.

When I woke up, the doctor asked me if I had eaten anything before I ran. He said my blood sugar was low, and I was probably also dehydrated. He then offered me neither food nor water. But he promised Vicodin, so I didn’t complain.

The nurse brought the pills, just enough cranberry juice to choke them down, and a cup to pee in. This should be easy.

Five hours after I managed to fill the cup, I couldn't swallow and was about to eat my hand. Finally, the test results came. Dehydration. That was all. Can I have some water now?

They pumped some fluid through my IV, and I walked home. Not the day I had planned, but it could have been worse.

The next day, a guy rear-ended me with his VW Rabbit. He got out, slapped his forehead, and said “I am such a dork!”

Yes. Yes you are. But at least you didn’t get beat up by a sidewalk.

*That website should be eaten by a virus. An internet virus. It is the 20/20 of the internet, and fuels the psycho in people like my mom by giving them a reason to fear everything from tree sap to jaundice.

The Mall Above Them All

2009-07-13T14:24:00.002-04:00

On a hung-over flight back from Vegas, I opened the ticket to turning any flight from claustrophobic to intoxicating: Sky Mall magazine. Inside was the most wondrous world of absurdity, each page begging to be mocked, right in my seat-front pocket. How had I missed it for so long?

The magazine is Delta’s attempt to sell the most outlandish, unnecessary crap imaginable. As a result, they have a lot of infomercial products. A hearing aid for people who don’t need a hearing aid, for example.

Sky Mall spices these products up though, so the hearing aid in the magazine is designed to look like a Blue Tooth. Instead of looking senile or creepy, the old man can look hip and cool. Because Blue Tooths, obviously, are hip and cool.

Some of the products are straight rip-offs of As Seen on TV products, like the Slanket, which I think we can all agree this is a clear example of blasphemy. This impersonator should therefore be boycotted, with all purchased Slankets burned and their owners executed.*

The Slanket wasn't what caught my attention, though. It was this, taking up all of page three. "Jumpin' Jammers," was the heading, and judging by the crotch-to-neck zippers and rubber-soled footsies, this is no normal nightwear. Unless you're an infant. But don't be fooled by the girl with pigtails. These jammies are much too large for any child. They even have adult designs, like dancing penguins and rockin' guitars.

The reason these caught my attention so quickly was not only because they freaked me out (grown people dressed like infants=creepy) but because I had seen them before.

My first encounter with the one-piece wonders was during a routine four-hour tour of Target. I was with Squires, and she had wandered into the pajama section. I heard a gasping laugh, and turned to see her staring in disbelief at a rack of pastel fleece.

They had a ton of them, but they were twenty bucks, and the clouds and duckies for big people made me feel dirty. Plus, I already had a Snuggie.

The Snuggie: the first product to make a profit because of how utterly ridiculous it is. People bought it solely for the sake of hilarity. I mean seriously, do you need the blanket with sleeves? You have a blanket, you have a sweatshirt. Pick one.

The Snuggie infomercial is a parody of itself, rattling off all the ways you can use your arms (talking on the phone, holding the remote) as if you haven't discovered them. It is so horrific, it's unbelievable. People had to buy their own to believe such unnecessary nonsense existed.

I got mine at Bed Bath and Beyond, along with the millions of other jackasses who wanted to be part of the phenomenon. And probably a few old women with poor circulation. While I won’t give you a full product review, Squires gives a good one on her blog, along with the shenanigans that accompanied the purchase.

The Snuggie started a wave of As Seen on TV mania, and so the absurdity continued. Products like the Ped Egg (cheese grater for your feet) and the pet equivalent, Pedi Paws, flew off the shelves of Walgreens and Bed Bath and Beyond. Target even sectioned out shelves for infomercial favorites.

Stores still don't have the Neckline Slimmer though, which I think is a mistake. It promises to get rid of a double chin while you sit there and bob your head up and down (as opposed to giving up Krispy Kremes) and looks like a pogo stick for your face.

None of these products compare to what Sky Mall has to offer, though. It takes As Seen On TV to a whole new level of bizarre. It trumps every product you have ever looked at and said "Who would buy that?"

Garden statues, for example, are already creepy. But Sky Mall bumps the hobby up to just plain weird. The boy peeing into a birdbath seems normal compared to the family of meerkats and the crouching Sasquatch. But I guess, who doesn’t want Big Foot in their back yard? Especially one so realistic it makes me wonder if at one time it actually did exist. I can't tell if this one looks scared or scary, but it makes me want to hide it behind a tree.

For animals outside the world of make believe, the possibilities are endless. You can get the indoor dog restroom, so your dog doesn't have to (god forbid) go outside. It's a rubber mat deep enough to hold two gallons of liquid, with fake grass on top and some nonsense claim about preventing odors.

With two gallons of pee (and don't tell me you can stop a dog from pooping on that thing) I'm going to have to disagree. Plus, why can't the dog go outside? Does the dog have that kind of OCD that makes him afraid to leave the house? Is he trapped inside all day while his owner works? Maybe this indoor restroom is really a torture device that encourages pet owners to leave their animals stranded for days, standing on urine-soaked turf.

Thankfully, the indoor restroom for cats is much more accommodating. It's a litter box that doubles as a planter-- a giant port-o-potty for your cat, with a plant sprouting out the top.

Apparently you can now use your pet's feces as fertilizer, and hide it from guests at the same time. Turn the door towards the wall, and no one will even notice it's a crap box. Until, of course, they smell the crap in your plant.

Every product in this magazine (and on infomercials) is ridiculous enough to fill its own posting. I could rant about every one of them, and that’s sort of the point. I will stop myself though, and end with perhaps the most disturbingly hilarious product Sky Mall has to offer.

It's called the Neck Pro, and it's a rope that fastens to the top of a door. At the other end, there is a harness for your neck. It claims to relieve muscle pain in your neck and upper back, but let's review: Rope tied above head, fastened to throat. That is a noose.

Look at the picture. Noose.

Oh yeah, and this is just funny:

I don't care if Delta charges $15 per checked bag. They have a catalogue that actually makes me forget I'm breathing recycled air for two hours; that takes me to the mystical world where people do crosswords the size of my bedroom, and wear watches that double as spy cams. It's fantasy that turns comedy when you realize it's real. For such enthralling entertainment, I'll shove my stuff into a carry-on.

*Not adhering to aforementioned boycott and executions will likely result in unforeseen consequences, i.e. eternity in Hell.

Would you rather: Get a DUI, or drive a Dodge Calibur?

2009-07-08T13:48:00.001-04:00

Protocol for reacting to car accident that is undeniably your fault:
1. Remove self from vehicle
2. Make sure other driver is alive/okay
3. Apologize

This bitch doesn’t even make it to number one before I call the cops, clean out my glove box, and sit on the sidewalk long enough to get a farmer’s tan.

When she does, it appears that her protocol number two is “Laugh so hard you don’t have to talk, and hope other driver finds car accidents equally hilarious.” She keeps saying things like “Can you believe this?” and follows it up with long sighs and more laughing.

No, actually. I can’t. She is living in a dream world in which rear-ending me is somehow either not her problem, or really ridiculously funny.

She starts cracking up again, switches to freak-out mode over a cell phone, and goes right back to knee-slapping fun.

What a freak.

I am staring at her. Not laughing, not smiling, just staring. During this exceptionally long bout of hysteria, I notice her bleached hair flopping back and forth with the rest of her, and that she seems to be having trouble opening her eyes. Her toenails are red with rhinestones in the shape of flowers, and the hot pink ring around her mouth makes me pretty sure she just made out with a drag queen.

Right when I think she may actually belong to a circus, she switches back to huffy. “I was supposed to bartend at 4:00,” she says.

“Yeah, well then you ran into me.”

She burrows into her purse so far I think she might suffocate, but unfortunately emerges with a business card. It's folded in half, and holds her contact information, her picture, and her previously-chewed gum.

I take it without noticing, see the gum, and throw it on the ground. She points out that she works at Remax (as if that proves sanity) and bends over to point at the logo. Oh, you have a job. In that case, you aren't a whack job, and this is completely normal. Please, if you are employed, ram your car into mine regularly.

She starts laughing again, and this time it knocks her off balance. She grabs my shoulder for support, and breathes so much vodka in my face I need a chaser.

"I was going to keep going through that yellow light, but you stopped," she says.

Yeah, you can't do that when someone else is in front of you, but I don't bother pointing that out. I just wait for the cop.

When he comes, I give him my license, registration, and insurance card. She gives him her license, a piece of gum, and a Florida postcard.

He asks what happened, and she starts to sputtering nonsense. When she points to an intersection a half mile down the road and says that's where the accident happened, the cop V's his brows and turns to me.

"Actually, it happened right here," I say. "We didn't move our cars."

This, apparently, is even funnier than the accident itself, because now she can't breathe. She is dying laughing, gasping for breath. She's really having a fantastic time, but then she really F's up. She makes her most idiotic mistake yet-- a mistake even battier than getting hammered and smashing into another car, or even (yes) getting nail art on your toes.

In her fit of laughter, our frazzled friend reels back, lifts her chubby claw of a hand, and lets it fall on an officer of the law.

It's one of those I'm just kidding, wasn't that funny? slaps on the arm. After a brief pause, she tries to apologize, but it doesn't matter. It's too late. She just hit a cop.

In my mind I'm saying "Oh no she di-n't," and the cop cocks his head to the side. I think I see tears when he leads her to the cruiser by the elbow, but it could just be the bloodshot eyes of a lush shocked into sobriety.

He closes the back door on her, gives me the information I need, and tells me to have a nice day. Oh sweet Jesus, how I want to stay and watch.

But I drive away, and obviously call as many people as I can to share the hilarity. Then I call Honda about fixing my bumper and getting a rental.

When I think this ghastly situation can not possibly get more horrific, Enterprise bitch-slaps me with a Dodge Calibur. I am distraught about having to drive this identity crisis of a vehicle (is it an SUV? a van? a hearse?) and wonder how it meets my request for "anything small and gas-efficient."

I can only hope that falling over while trying to touch her nose and stand on one foot was more humiliating for her than driving that beastly station wagon was for me.

Author's note: Vodka should not be faulted for any unfortunate outcomes in this story, as Jamie Foxs is the giver of bad advice, and nothing should ever be blamed on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.

Slaves like Independence Day, too.

2009-07-06T10:35:00.001-04:00

My neighbor owns most of the strip clubs in Atlanta, including The Pink Pony. He also owns a fifty-year-old black man who is illiterate in everything except landscaping. James keeps the shrubs trimmed and the cars washed, and gets to live in the back section of the house in exchange. He has his own entrance, and a stoop where he can keep his bike.

Jack , the owner, is seventy-seven and spends less than three days a week at his place in Atlanta. He has a place in the middle of nowhere, Georgia (where his third wife and some kids live) and an estate in Vegas. He travels around to his other clubs from Florida to North Carolina like the Hugh Heffner of the South.

James, on the other hand, is a constant presence. He is usually in the driveway, and usually yelling. (At himself... the bushes...?) He washes one of Jack's cars at least twice a day. If it gets dust on it, he told me, he has to wash it again.

James doesn't have a car. Jack's rule or the law's, I'm unsure, but he doesn't drive. Instead, he rides a purple bike with a banana seat. If you have ever seen Friday, picture a chubbier, less scary version of Debo. He even has the retro handlebars.

He's protective of that bike, too. One of the many times he was outside yelling in the middle of the night, I asked him why. He said someone had come up on his stoop and tried to take his bike (which was outside, not locked up). So, he had to come out with his taser.

Yeah, his taser.

I figured he had used his bike as bait to give him an excuse to try out his new toy. After all, what good is a weapon if you don't even know it works?

I think James is harmless though, if only because he's clueless. I'm out front one morning-- it's a Saturday, maybe 9:00-- and James rides up the driveway on his bike. He has a balloon tied to one handlebar. It's partially deflated, so I figure whatever sign he jacked it from is outdated anyway.

He takes the balloon off, walks to the street, and starts bobbing it up and down. He looks around for cars, and I ask what he's doing. He says he's going to make some money. He's going to let people park in their driveway for twenty bucks. All day, only twenty bucks.

I look at my car in the street. I look at the five or six other spots: empty, perfectly legal, and free. I point them out to James. "Yeah, but in the driveway they can leave and come back," he says.

He is excited about this, so I go along with it. I tell him he needs a sign. "You going to make me one?" he says. I say absolutely not, but realize he probably can't write well enough to make his own. He can barely speak well enough to communicate.

People are baffled when they first meet James, because they don't see how I can understand him. It takes practice, I guess. Like when a mom can tell what her two-year-old wants right away even though the rest of us just hear babbling.

Anyway, I ask him if Jack is going to mind him renting out parts of his driveway. He says some stuff I don't understand, and then "Forget Jack. I run this."

I think back a few weeks, to when James was freaking out because there was a beer can at the edge of their yard. He said he would get in trouble if Jack thought he was drinking, and I swear he had the look of a man facing thirty lashes.

"Jack's out of town," he said a minute later. Obviously. And obviously, James didn't make any money that day.

I feel sorry for him sometimes, but James really doesn't have it that bad. Jack bought him a new bike for his birthday this year. He even let him celebrate the Fourth of July. Not at the big party Jack has every year, of course, but James doesn't mind. He likes the Fourth because Jack brings him party leftovers. (One year he got Sparklers, but he's not allowed to have those anymore.)

This year, it was those Snaps that pop when you throw them. Three cases of them. James had ninety minutes of ear-splitting driveway fun. And really, what more do you need to celebrate Independence Day?

Rain Found to Cause Temporary Brain Failure

2009-06-23T10:07:00.001-04:00

I’m driving down 85 on my way home from school, and everyone slams on their brakes. Traffic? No. Cop? No. Volcanic eruption swallowing cars into a river of lava? Not that I see.

All I see is the beginning of a light rain—a summer drizzle to cool the air; not even enough to drown the sun. Yet cars screech to a halt, tires smoke. A pick-up squeals into the left shoulder.

When we speed up to a risky thirty-five miles an hour, the rain picks up. Just a little. It’s still not hard to see, but enough hazard lights turn on to turn the highway into a lifesize pinball machine. You would think this double turn signal was a new feature, with so many people using any excuse to make their cars blink.

Just so you know, when you’re going forty in the left lane, all your hazards do is remind me—over and over again, every point eight seconds—how incredibly in my way you actually are.

Hazard lights are for situations in which you cannot safely operate your vehicle—your car is in a dangerous (or hazardous) situation: the brakes went out, you’re running out of gas, your tire spins off the axel and leaves your sparking and lopsided.

Or—in the most extreme cases—during dangerous weather. If it's rain, we're talking torrential downpour, monsoon-like storm, avalanche of water. Not the common shower.

I guess I shouldn't complain though, if they aren't brake lights. Either way, it seems like red lights on the highway are generally uneccesarry.

Safari Njema

2009-06-22T18:31:00.000-04:00

Taking small breaths to avoid overwhelming whiffs of B.O., Caroline and I rooted through our gmail as quickly as possible. We had gone to the library to use the Internet, when we were reminded of the Internet cafes in Tanzania. There, you save Tanzanian shillings by not wasting time on Facebook. Here, you save yourself from the screaming match that will inevitably take place between the patron who keeps leaning on the counter, and the woman who has told him four times that you have to pay a dime to print.

To give you an idea of what kind of establishment this is, there is a sign that says "Please limit restroom use to 5 minutes." I have seen the rule broken. Twice. By the same woman.

Anyway, I was reminded by this cozy little sweat pot (and by Caroline) that it was exactly one year ago today that we arrived in Tanzania. To commemorate the anniversary, you should look at my pictures.

http://picasaweb.google.com/holly.oldham/Tanzania#

No, I am not a prostitute.

2009-06-10T17:08:00.001-04:00

Dude on his porch: Get out of here or I'm calling the cops!
Me: Are you talking to us?
Gretchen: Why?
Dude: I see what you guys are doing. I know what you're looking for.

After a few minutes of back and forth with this guy, two things are clear:
1. He is absolutely positive we are prostitutes, and 2. Gretchen and I both easily pass the fingertip test, making us not only appropriately dressed for a Saturday night out, but also within the guidelines of most high school dress codes. Oh yeah, and NOT prostitutes. We point this out to him. Loudly.

I also point out that we are in summer dresses and flats.... FLATS! Prostitutes do not wear flats. Or carry purses. Or stand and talk to another girl on the sidewalk. I know this because I am scared of them ever since my friend got chased by one; I pay attention. Apparently this guy does not.

According to his American Eagle cargo shorts (P.S. Plato's Closet will actually pay you to stop wearing those) our model citizen is younger than us. Plus, he clearly lives in the neighborhood, and is determined to rid his street of any illegal activity; he should get a clue. I'm insulted. I would be less insulted if he offered me money for sex, and that's insulting.

Adding to the insult is the fact that there were quite a few actual prostitutes clomping about the streets around us. I know these were actual prostitutes by the 6-inch heels, feather boas, and wigs. Also the way they shoved their practically-bare asses toward cars when they came by: really not hard to figure these things out.

So, final review... Seven-foot tall man in sequined body suit and fishnets: prostitute. Drunk girls in Old Navy cotton: not so much.

Squeegee Tales

2009-06-04T14:49:00.000-04:00

My windshield is so nast-covered that it is no longer transparent, so I decide it's time to do something about it. I pull into Chevron for the squeegee and wiper fluid-- obviously better than an actual car wash, since it's free. I take care of the front and back windshield, scrub the bird poop off my sunroof, and look around to see if anyone is watching. (I need to get the rest of my windows, which I'm pretty sure breaks free-cleaner etiquette, even if it is grey and gnat-infested.)

The only person likely to see me is a guy who once tried to sell me a "beautiful flower" (blade of grass) for a dollar. He's standing against the gas station wall, covered in remnants of at least three flannel shirts, with another around his waist. I'm not worried about him witnessing my squeegee abuse. After successfully washing all glass (and maybe a few non-glass) surfaces of my car, I stand back to admire. Not bad for dirty water and a greasy piece of plastic.

My rag-clad friend catches me off guard when I find him standing next to me, full-tooth grin except for the one he's missing. I check his hands for plant matter and find none, but decide this is a good time to book it anyway. I chuck the squeegee in the little half bucket and open my car door. I think the guy is about to ask me for money, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he shuffles to the front of my car, looks at me, looks at the half bucket, then looks back at me. He shakes his head and clucks his tongue, still smiling.

"Lordy!" Whoa, keep it down; no need to draw attention. "Times sure are hard, ain't they Miss?" The tilt of his head makes me think he feels bad for me, and I forgive him for being so loud. I'm actually grateful he cares.

I smile, say something like "Yeah, have a good one," and get in my car. Then, through my windshield (now transparent, thank you very much) I see him start to laugh. I guess I'm glad I'm not being pitied by a homeless guy like I thought, but what is so funny? I watch as he goes from chuckling to cracking up, leaning over to catch his breath. I swear he's laughing so hard he's going to pass out.

He points his finger to confirm that I am, indeed, the reason he is about to die laughing. What? Haven't you ever seen someone wash their car before? Nevermind it's a white girl cleaning the entire exterior of her Civic with a squeegee and paper towels; I don't think this is cause for public breakdown.

I get out of my car and stare at him behind the open door. You can't just laugh at someone like that. He controls himself enough to stagger toward the street, giggling but less emphatically. When he gets to the sidewalk though, he looks back at me to refuel his hysterics, and returns to his compulsive laughing fit. That's great, I'm glad I could make this poor guy's day.

Fucker. See if I ever buy a blade of grass from you again.